


In The Morning Light

by honey_wheeler



Category: Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey, The White Princess (TV)
Genre: Crack, Dragonriders of Pern crossover, F/M, idek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 10:35:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11781375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: H’nry isn’t asleep; that’s the difficult part. If he were still sleeping, she could slip from beneath his arm, disentangle her limbs from his, and steal out without any uncomfortable discussion or confrontation. She wouldn’t have to face him and remember everything they’d done in the heat of the mating flight, and worse, everything they’d done after, when they no longer had the heightened lust of their dragons to excuse their actions.





	In The Morning Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thefairfleming](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefairfleming/gifts).



> Look, this is complete crack, the crossover that no one asked for, I DON'T KNOW, my muse is flighty and fickle.

Dawn has come and gone. Outside her weyr, Lizzie can hear the sounds of life stirring: hatchings being ushered down to feed, riders coming in from the early watch, the kitchen women calling them in for klah and porridge. Normally Lizzie would be out among them; she’s always been an early riser, finding the quiet energy of the Weyr in the morning to be bracing and soothing, a pleasant routine to start her days. Today she’s been lying abed for more than an hour past when she would normally rise. Her right arm tingles with dead nerves, her bladder is screaming for relief, but still she lies there, eyes closed, feigning sleep despite the lateness of the morning.

It’s only that it’s a morning Lizzie doesn’t want to face just yet. Not after the night it follows.

H’nry isn’t asleep; that’s the difficult part. If he were still sleeping, she could slip from beneath his arm, disentangle her limbs from his, and steal out without any uncomfortable discussion or confrontation. She wouldn’t have to face him and remember everything they’d done in the heat of the mating flight, and worse, everything they’d done after, when they no longer had the heightened lust of their dragons to excuse their actions. He’s been awake near as long as she has, though. She’d felt the change in him, the start of surprise, then the slow softening realization when he remembered what had gone between them the night before. He could have left then – she’d mentally urged him to – but he’d settled back at her side, his arm around her waist tightening carefully to pull her against him. She hadn’t wanted him to. Moreover, she hadn’t wanted to like it, but shells, she very much liked it, especially when his thumb began a slow, easy sweep over the peak of her breast beneath the bed linens. Of all the bloody people to have the most unbearably pleasurable night of her life with, he’s the last one she can stomach.

He wasn’t the first, which was probably for the best. Lizzie’s heard all about sheltered hold girls being overwhelmed during their first flights, too young and green to handle the intense experience of being dragon-linked during mating, too rigid and unsure to take their own mating without pain. Lizzie is weyr-born and bred, not some hold-bred ninny with foolish ideas of chastity. She’d taken a lover when her Yorkith was still too young to be flown yet, an older bronze-rider who was thorough and gentle and completely indulgent of her every desire. R’chard had died less than a turn ago, he and his dragon the victims of an erratic threadfall. Lizzie’s bed has been cold since then. She would have chosen to share it with any rider other than the one who occupies it now, his thumb still moving in maddening, arousing sweeps. That thumb had moved other places last night. As had his mouth. And his cock.

Lizzie moans despite herself. H’nry’s thumb pauses, and then his hand begins to slide downwards, over the bed linens covering her stomach to the juncture of her thighs. Only the barest press of his fingers and her whole body throbs and aches with desire as if dragon-roused. For a split moment, she imagines letting him continue. She imagines parting her legs wide, throwing aside the linens to let him get his fingers on her skin, inside her. She imagines pushing him back to the mattress and flinging her thigh across his face, something she shamefully remembers doing twice during the night, not that he seemed at all inclined to object. In fact, she remembers him sinking his hands into her hips and guiding her against his mouth encouragingly. She may never forget it, actually.

Instead she boils up out of bed like a cork from a bottle and searches about her quarters for something, anything, to cover herself up.

Once she’s finally located a tunic and skirt and pulled them on hastily, she turns to face him. He’s indulgence itself lying there on her bed, head propped on his hand as he watches her, the bedlinens skimming his rangy frame in a way that reminds her just what’s under those linens. He knows she didn’t want it to be him, shard the man. He knows she loved every bit of it anyway, shard him even more.

Lizzie just stares at him for a moment, groping for the properly caustic thing to say that will wipe that smirk right off his face. It doesn’t come. She very nearly climbs right back into bed with him. She thinks she could stay there all day and into the night and still not be sated. Oh, shards and shell it all.

Instead she whirls and leaves without a word. H’nry is a problem that will keep for another time.


End file.
